Timing
by A Little Rusty
Summary: Or the one where Molly Hooper blindly walks in on Sherlock Holmes and a house guest. After which Sherlock royally screws up and then some. Molly finds she's equal parts fond and exasperated of the man.
1. Chapter 1

**Timing**

**Or the one where Molly Hooper blindly walks in on Sherlock Holmes and a house guest. Imagine everything awkward and cringe worthy. Humour.**

**Chapter 1**

**It wouldn't leave me.**

**Disclaimer: K.**

* * *

Molly Hooper could possible have the worst timing.

Ever. Not that she lacked it but rather the universe hates her. Quite immensely at that.

But does it? Does it _really_?

Somehow, after seven years of knowing him; spending a better part of those years harboring his ghastly secret; and after countless false starts, she's managed finally become right and proper friends with the world's only consulting detective.

She likes him. Understatement of the year that but it doesn't matter. Because now that they've finally mellowed into some sort of friendship, she's happy.

She loves him but it doesn't always follows that boy has to feel the same way.

She's okay with it. She helped him faked his death. Really, there's not much she wouldn't do for the man.

But all that aside, she walks into something that could possibly upset their small growth.

* * *

Mrs. Hudson, bless her soul, was possibly the world's most patient woman ever. But really decaying flesh and baggies upon baggies of things she's not quite sure were legally acquired (in the fridge no less!) were really really far too much.

And so one afternoon she called (_begged_) Molly to please, _please_ come and sort them out. She was a pathologist, surely she could help. And well she's sure Sherlock wouldn't mind. Seeing he somehow more than tolerates the pathologist with the ill-timed jokes and well-meant sentiments.

One could say he was fond of her.

That's good. Her boy could do with a lady's company. Now that John moved out.

Well, Mrs. Hudson, how superbly aggressive of you.

And so the afternoon after her shift, saw (poor, unaware) Molly on a taxi ride to 221B.

A quick hello to Mrs. H and a go right on ahead after, saw her knocking on Sherlock's door.

"Molly-" he looked somewhat surprised if not a little startled.

"Hullo, just a quick pick up," she said waving the cooler she brought with the bio-hazard baggies shuffling inside.

She made to step inside but Sherlock was unmoving.

Sighing she tried to compromise, "All right all right, I'll promise not to bin them but I'll have to move them to St. Bart's. Mrs. Hudson asked me to."

Sherlock didn't look quite right, Molly noticed...

He was hiding something. Subtly trying to conceal the flat so that she could only partly see John's empty armchair while his arm was strategically concealing the back of his leather chair.

And because this was Molly, and she was finely in tune to Sherlock, she picked up on his almost slight panic.

"Sherlock?" she asked a bit concerned and confused, "what's wro-"

"Mr. Holmes, what's taking you?" a woman's voice came from inside.

Husky if not a bit seductive and all around suggestive.

And for (bright, _bright_) Molly Hopper everything fell in place. Her skin prickled and her heartbeat escalated and well she felt a bit not good actually. Her small mouth formed an 'o' and all she could do was flounder in true Molly Hooper fashion.

What came out were a series of unattractive uhm's and r-right's but mostly oh's. And a few false starts.

After a moment Molly could see a beauty rise from Sherlock's chair. Though Sherlock did try to strategically move a tiny _tiny_ bit to his right as to block her.

And the voice complemented the face well.

More than well, actually. A bit more like woah congrats on that face. And lips. And those hips. And really really good job on that skin. And god, was she wearing his blue dressing gown? Molly didn't need to be a doctor to see she wasn't wearing anything underneath.

"Erm, hullo," she gave a nervous wave to the woman.

Molly Hooper did have the worst timing. Ever.

She faced Sherlock.

"Uh, right," she's always been so eloquent.

They were friends now. Right and proper. She had no business feeling duped. Not in the slightest. If it were John or Greg in this situation, they wouldn't hesitate to take the mick out of him. Especially in such a beauty's company.

So, right. She wasn't going to be awkward for long.

They were friends now. Right and proper.

"Actually, I think I'll be leaving now," she tried her best to put a bit of humour to her voice and a comic face on but she's sure it didn't translate well. Ha. Molly Hooper, everyone.

It didn't helped that the way she turned was almost robotic and well mid-way down the stairs she turned back up. Sherlock was still at the door.

"Actually, could you maybe pack the things." she waved the cooler again, "and drop them off at Bart's? I only had time today,"

He opens his mouth but she was quick to say-

"Or don't if you don't want to! It's okay," nervous laughter here.

"You know what, I'll uh go ask John," she nodded to herself, already heading down the stairs.

"Yes, John," she says. She twists around but almost instantly turns away from him and with that she almost fumbles the way down.

They were friends now. Right and proper. Right? No need for this awkwardness at all.

* * *

**More soon.**

**I've never really liked this chapter. I want to rewrite it but that would change the whole feel of the story.**


	2. Chapter 2

**You guys, I need more loove. Also thanks for the favorites, and follows and reviews! The best one where you told me you could see this happening. Ta, sweet. You are tré cool, magicstrikes.**

**Also always review with the word banana. Because bananas are ****tré cool also.**

**Disclaimer: L.**

* * *

Confused.

John was confused. Sherlock had a case yesterday. Just yesterday. And he said it himself it was at least a 7. Surely the after effects of the working fit hasn't left him so early. A seven _usually_ warranted maybe a couple more days of wriggling in his chair and giggling over the brilliance of it all. But no.

It was early evening, the sun still up, but you wouldn't know it with the curtains drawn tight. Just the tiniest bit of sunlight.

And it also helped his suspicion that the man himself was seated as his wont. His fingertips weren't together so okay, no new case then. No violin near, so okay not some great depression nor some great mystery. The telly wasn't on, so he didn't need a distraction.

He was just sitting there.

Well okay, this was new.

And with great care the good doctor made his presence known. By slamming the door loudly behind him. Immature of him but like totes whatevar.

"Oh, please. I knew you were there the moment you were on the stair," he tsked, turning his head slightly to see John behind him, "Your boots aren't all that quiet, did you know?" was his usual git-like greeting.

He scrunched up his face, "Also you breathe funny."

Ha-ha. Brilliant.

"Well, you seem peachy. What's the matter _this_ time?"

"Nothing's the matter, John," he replied in a too affected posh manner methinks.

"Right, so you're sulking then?"

"I do not sulk."

"Hmm noo, of _course_ not."

After a bit of a (_mature_) glaring match. John broke first. He rocked on the balls of his feet meaning to look nonchalant but really? In the presence of this great detective that was damn near impossible.

"Molly called me earlier."

"Oh?" not facing John but keeping him in his peripheral.

"Yea, she asked me if I could do the errand Mrs. H asked her. I'm meant to pick up the cooler tomorrow after her shift."

"Okay," his gazed flicked to John for a moment but he said no more.

Sometimes John felt more like a father scolding his son when dealing with Sherlock Holmes.

But this was John, he was used to Sherlock's impossibilities. The key was to be unrelenting. And so, he did just that.

He crossed his arms in defiance and tapped his (not quiet) boot impatiently.

And Sherlock responded in kind. With a great show of rolling his eyes and a great big huff.

"And I'm meant to deduce that you're here to ask what I _did_ to her," his snobbish reply.

"Yes, yes."

A bit more (mature) glaring. More eye rolling.

"Irene Adler."

John Watson was more than unnerved with that reply. He wasn't expecting it and that was right of him. Because Irene Adler was more than a sore spot and Sherlock never elected to speak of her at all. But John knew she was always **the woman** to Sherlock. And well they've established that she was in America under witness program. But John Watson was sure she's dead.

And long since, so he reluctantly passed this on.

"Uhm, S-sherlock... she's dead."

"Wrong."

"Uh, right," he scratched his scruffy chin, "helped her then?"

"Yes, but that's beside the point. Molly walked in while the woman was here."

And with that John Watson was unnerved some more.

"Oh, this is bad Sherlock. Very bad," not for his friend but for himself. Imagine Mary badgering him for more details later on. And some tea and toast with Mrs. H gossiping over it. Ah, what a nightmare. Another time he would be giggling over Sherlock having lady problems but he has a wife now. Who would love to see Sherlock and Molly crack on. And gossip. And butt in. Mary was quite passionate about the pair.

Right and true nightmare. Ah me, he needed a sit.

Right he was suppose to be the supportive friend here. He cleared his throat a bit after sitting on his armchair opposite the man.

"Tea?"

Good parenting skills, he reminded himself. Good parenting skills.

* * *

The plan was to get in and get out. And maybe light banter with Sherlock. Because she likes the man, she's allowed to want things. And it's okay he doesn't feel the things she feels. But they are friends and they're allowed to talk and enjoy each other's company.

Dear me, Molly. Where's your head?

She hasn't been overly deluding herself to believe they would be anything more but somehow The Incident seemed to be the final nail on the cross. The straw that breaks the camel's back.

They're okay. They'll be okay.

They've been through worse things. More awkward things. And they'll go through some more but this one.

This one was hell beyond different. She's messed it up, she's sure. Her reaction. He saw it. And god he was trying his best to assuage it too.

Mmmm, dear me.

He knows, always has known.

But through the years they've manage to tip toe around it. Her feelings. They've both elected to ignore it. And the ignorance is right and truly bliss. Because they've their cues and they've grown. And Molly is safe in the knowledge that he wouldn't mock her for it.

He's been a little good to her too.

But there's somethings that always _always_ back tracks them. Be it cutting remarks or missed cues. Always.

This she hopes wouldn't bring them all the way back to square one. Anything but square one, please.

They could ignore this one too. Tempting. She'll turn that idea over later.

After fumbling out 221B feeling more than restless, she decided to walk home instead of taking the tube or taxi. There was something she had to do. Right, call John.

"H-hi, John! It's me, are you busy tomorrow? No? Could you maybe pick a cooler at Bart's tomorrow. What for? For the dead things in Sherlock's fridge. Mrs. Hudson asked me today and I was on my way but something came up. I'm leaving the day after tomorrow and today was really the only time I had. You can? Great! Thanks, come after my shift yea? Say hullo to Mary for me. Bye."

Molly stopped walking and pressed the hand holding her mobile to her forehead. God, she needed a sit.

They'll be okay. Just another awkward thing to ignore, really. They'll be fine.

* * *

**More soon.**

** Also don't forget... banana me. So I know you liked it. **


	3. Chapter 3

**Here is a filler fic. I know it may seem slow and steady but this is Molly and Sherlock. They take time and I promise the next chapter is more. So much more.**

**Also thanks for the bananas.**

**And to Rosie85 for the most indirect plot bunny.**

**In my head, Molly has known him for almost two years and with the series that's an extra two-ish years and with the fake death for about three and he's been back for almost half a year... so seven. They've known each other seven years.**

**Disclaimer: M.**

* * *

Sherlock woke at what appeared to a little over lunchtime judging by the sunlight coming from his windows. He also woke up to the smell of roses. Velvety, provocative roses. Looked to his side and found her there.

Typical.

He got home late or rather early that morning and promptly collapsed face first on his bed. That does happen after most of his high priority cases. After spending days focused only on the game he does forget to eat or sleep. Such is the burden of a brilliant mind.

When he slept he was in the middle now he awoke on the right side of the bed. So she flipped him then. Easy enough after a case like that he was sure to be dead to the world.

He rolled his eyes. Of course she would be naked. She was on her side uncomfortably close to him but he noted she wasn't touching him. Hmm, that would be too personal. The woman didn't _do_ personal.

He didn't have to deduce how she got in. From the bathroom window he bets. Feeling sentimental, were we?

All this happened with the speed of thought.

Quietly, as much as he could and that was a great deal lot, he got out of bed. He hung for her his maroon dressing gown on his door, knowing she'd rummage his closet for his blue one. _Sentiment_, he sneered.

He calculated she'd wake in roughly three hours. Good he needed a shower seeing as he slept in his suit from the day previous. And he had a lovely experiment in the fridge.

* * *

"Oh so you'll come over this afternoon then? Thanks again, dearie," Mrs. H hung up and smiled fondly at her mobile. Molly was simply just darling.

* * *

"Why are you here?"

"My, my, feeling a bit touchy aren't we today, Mr. Holmes? How come, didn't you sleep well?" she teases.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and placed his cuppa down. Sensing his impatience, Irene languidly roamed the sitting area. Running her fingers on the mantle, picking up his skull and putting it down. She continued her pace until she reached his violin by the window, all the while replying with a:

"Nothing, Mr. Holmes. Just a quick house call. Just to see how _well_ you've settled back into the land of the living. Also I admit I'm a bit hurt that you haven't tried to contact me since your _glorified_ resurrection. Seeing how I am also dead, I thought maybe that would warrant some kindred-ship from you," in her same oddly toned voice and pout.

She held up his bow and violin, "would you play something for me?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her. This time it was her turn to roll her eyes and reply exasperatedly,

"I'm just here for some fun, Sherlock. Nothing more I promise. Also, being 'dead' bores me."

Finally accepting she had no ulterior motives, Sherlock moved from his chair and gathered his bow and violin. While Irene took his vacated chair.

"Fantastic!"

Just as Sherlock was about to delicately move the bow over his violin, he heard it.

Soft shuffling steps from the stairs beyond the closed door.

He carefully placed his violin down. He tilted his head a bit.

They were shuffling but not slow, so not Mrs. Hudson's then. Also they were careful, so they knew where the stairs creaked. Soft, so not John's then. He wore boots. So whose then?

Without knowing it he was slowly gravitating to the door. By then there came a soft knock from it. He opened it forgetting for a moment there was a supposedly dead woman in his flat.

"Molly-"

* * *

"I see you've already settled in... _quite_ nicely," in her same oddly toned voice still and teasing smirk.

Sherlock had one word for her only,

"Leave."

* * *

He didn't know why but he felt the need to text her.

To clear up the misunderstanding.

They weren't in a relationship, so why feel the need at all? They were friends but he thinks he won't feel the need to explain were it John at the door.

A quick reevaluation was greatly needed. Certainly.

He wasn't beyond cutting remarks but somehow lately (even before his fall) he's been careful not to cut her too deeply.

Only her. Why?

He's still harsh to John and something vile to Mrs. Hudson on occasion.

But over his faked death and return, he's learned to be delicate around Molly. Not delicate. But more like... nicer. A bit more good. He lets her admonishing stick more than John's. Maybe because while John's was more of a scolding, hers was reluctant and if not awkward.

They were comfortable with each other. Nothing stilted like before but more leveled.

But they do tip toe some when they've missed cues or forgot how not to.

Also Molly Hooper had the habit of surprising him and managing his impossibilities beautifully.

He thinks he gets it.

Why he wants to clear all this mess...

Their friendship has been rocky from the beginning. Somehow it has mellowed into this.

And it may have taken seven years, several false starts, faked deaths and a return but they are _here._

He'd be damned if this awkward mess botch all that up.

Happy with this conclusion, he withdrew from his mind palace. And not short after John Watson slammed the door and made him talk about it more over tea. Great.

John said to let it go. Ignore this until Molly makes the first move. Take his cues from her.

Really, great advice. Really.

No, he knows what to do. The last time they found themselves in an awkward great mess was that one Christmas. He's sure he knows what to do for her forgiveness.

To speed things along.

Oh yes, he most certainly did.

Then after they can ignore this awkward mess too.

Brilliant. They've done this enough times, what's one more?

Also Sherlock Holmes knows no timing. Whatsoever.

* * *

**More soon.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Here I drop a bomb on you.**

**Also I think I'm only appreciating now how hard it is to write stories.**

**And how they're no really good for your ego. Is it pathetic how I don't feel accomplished cause the 1k readers that have seen this don't review? Ha totes.**

**reply seven if you have read this.**

**Hey, new followers, heey.**

**Disclaimer: N.**

* * *

Good just labs today. Just the way Molly planned it yesterday, so she could come home early, do some last minute packing. Rest then off to the airport to catch her early morning flight.

Only, today she wasn't expecting one Sherlock Holmes.

Usually when something awkward happens, Sherlock would avoid St. Bart's, and by extension her, for a week or so. After she'll talk as if nothing's happened, convinced that he _wouldn't_ do anything about it and so why should she?

But this time it's different. Off page.

She's tired and he isn't giving her the customary one week of absence. No he's here now and she knows she could just wave and say everything's okay, call a truce but it's not in their habit to acknowledge something awkward passed let alone talk about it. So ignoring then.

"H-hey, Sherlock!"

Christ, too cheerful.

She clears her throat and readjusts her shoulder bag and tries again for casual.

"I'll just change then I can help you with whatever you need."

Regression already?

Her awkward best but it's fine. They'll get it right again soon. She finds comfort in that idea and relaxes as she's opening her locker to put away her lumpy bag.

* * *

She's still awkward.

Time to bring up the ante, Sherlock.

Or you'll lose. Whatever this is.

* * *

Molly hummed distractedly as she puts on her lab coat. She hears the door open but doesn't turn, knowing it'll be Sherlock waiting impatiently at the door. She does still need to braid her hair. And more courage. Especially courage.

"Give me a minute, Sherlock," she says to her locker. She hears the door close but still she turns around to make sure he went out.

And that's when it all turns to the shits.

Cold warm hands cup her face. They're in her hair and on her cheeks. Lips meet hers. Beautifully if not a bit awkward. And it's Sherlock, she knows. How? Because it's all 221B, coffee and Mrs. Hudson's biscuits that fills her nose. It doesn't add up. Him kissing her but for a moment she lets herself have it. Time enough to memorize the smells and softness that _is_ Sherlock Holmes.

But as usual practical Molly stands up. Saying wait, _wait_.

And suddenly it all adds up. Oh.

And her heart withers. Always.

She breaks it first.

Looks at him almost disbelievingly but most certainly dumbly.

She presses her lips together and she can feel the space between her lower lip and chin contort. She's shaking her head a bit too.

Silence. A pregnant pause. A pathologist. And the world's only consulting detective. It's like an opening for a bad _bad_ joke.

Nice to know she hasn't grown bitter with age. She buh's a bit. Lips still hyper aware and in shock.

"That wasn't nice," she smacks her lips, "a bit cruel actually," she nods her head a bit, taking a step back towards her locker.

"Considering," she makes a gesture to the negative space between them. Not eloquent enough to put into words their situation.

About her feelings for him, about how damn near crippling that just was... and didn't they decide to tip toe over everything that touched feelings?

She closes her eyes and heaves the biggest of sighs...

"You shouldn't kiss people. Not when you don't _mean_ it."

His missed enough social cues with her that she's used to it.

But this.

This wasn't the plan.

They were going to be okay. They were suppose to ignore the day at the flat. She was more than fine with that.

Molly Hooper doesn't feel heartbreak that she found a woman in his flat. She's not thinking those things at all.

Why should she? They were _friends_ now. Right and proper.

No illusion or delusions on her part broken. Only just that maybe Sherlock Holmes doesn't swing that way. Ha.

And maybe she should have made that more crystal when she walked in the lab or better yet _before_ she left his flat yesterday.

She was okay so long as they remain friends. She could be the pining idiot in their duo. She'll be exasperatedly fond of everything he does and he'll be the bastard that breaks into her flat to do secret experiments on her cat.

He royally screwed over though.

Another missed cue.

Another awkward scene.

Molly closed her eyes and pressed a hand to her forehead. He was more than impossible, sometimes.

"I think I'll go home now."

Unprofessional of her but she's been more than tried by Sherlock today. And Mike owes her. Also he's been off a week now and has been complaining of boredom. He'll be happy to cover for her. Okay. Yea, that sounds like the loveliest idea right about now.

Sherlock hasn't said anything so far. And well, the little hope that he _kissed_ her for something different died when he didn't try to stop her from walking out. Still in her lab coat no less.

* * *

Right and utter bastard he was.

Molly Hooper has had a taste of Sherlock Holmes. And now she's utterly _utterly_ ruined.

* * *

He thinks he miscalculated. Because he more than enjoyed that kiss. Everything slowed down and fast forwarded _all at the same time_, but more importantly he finally _finally _realizes what's been humming through his bones every time he's with Molly Hooper.

He didn't need five minutes to ruin a good thing. He could do wonderfully with just _one_.

Also Sherlock Holmes really _truly_ knows nothing of timing. Whatsoever.

* * *

**More soon. But in the meantime, do review me. Banana didn't become a thing.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Something for your teeth.**

**During Sherlock's exile all he ever wanted to do was come home, right? So that's important.**

**guys CreamoCrop follows my story, I fangirl-ed a bit.**

**Read her Playing Fields and The Spare Room.**

**banana became a thing-ish. Ha. Thanks anyway for trying, guys. Kisses.**

**Disclaimer: O.**

* * *

_One new voice mail:_

_"Good, I was hoping to get your voice mail. So hey," here she clears her throat, "I'm at the airport," she pauses and he imagines she's bending her head and fidgeting with the boarding pass on her lap. "It sounds convenient but I've been planning this trip for ages. I didn't tell you because you love mysteries and I thought maybe who better than to figure out where I've gone off to than you, right?" she paused a bit and he thinks she somehow dropped her boarding pass, "no need to worry, though. I've set everything up with Mike beforehand. I cleared some freezer space for you and there're new interns coming this week, scare them for me will you?" high nervous twinkling laughter that was uniquely Molly. "Listen, Sherlock," a pause, "about what happened. We can forget it, all right? When I come back it'd be like nothing's happened. We'll be fine. You and me. Always." and she wouldn't be Molly Hooper if she didn't say something sentimental. Something that cements that they'll be okay. __She hasn't forgotten how they got here. No, never._

_There's a pause and a breath for courage._

_"I'll be __home__ soon."_

* * *

Tea with Mrs. Hudson. Is her first thought when she wakes up. A week somewhere and she's allowed herself two extra days to settle back in. She got home yesterday, promptly collapsed on her bed luckily and has been sleeping since. Now it's the morrow and she's meant to have afternoon tea with Mrs. H later.

Her alarm clock reads 7am. Good, she has time to do a bit of groceries, unpack and maybe bake something.

Molly bakes lemon bars because she finds she always has too many lemons. And Mrs. H will probably share them with Sherlock. He'll see them and deduce what it means, because he is more than a little brilliant.

She finds him tart and sweet.

Also it's somewhat of a peace offering. A sign that they'll be okay. Noting changes. And because this is Molly, he won't mind the overtly sentimental gesture.

They'll be okay. They're still friends. Right and proper. Just right now she's a little bit sad. And maybe he could let her feel it for once.

* * *

"Molly, darling, we've missed you terribly!" not even a second later Molly finds herself in a warm embrace. She's glad she had the forethought to move the cling wrapped plate of lemon bars or they'd be decorating her blouse right now.

"You've been to see the Watsons then, dear? No? How about Sherlock? He's upstairs, you know. Oh are those lemon bars? Go right ahead and bring those up to Sherlock, dear."

Molly splutters for a bit, trying to assure Mrs. Hudson that she's here for her and no, they're not for Sherlock. All the while Mrs. Hudson half guides-half pushes her up the stairs.

"Rubbish, dear. We can catch up later, I think Sherlock would be glad to see you."

I think Mrs. Hudson's figured some things out.

* * *

And so the awkwardness continues.

She pushes his slightly open door. And he's there by the window, holding his violin and bow but he's not playing. Still in his pyjamas. Maroon dressing gown though.

He stares at her. Not really sure how to continue.

Right, no awkwardness.

Molly clears her throat and raises the plate of pastries a bit, nervous smile and half a shrug.

"Lemon bars?"

"I was feeling sentimental."

A pause.

"Of course."

Right, conversation.

"So did you figure out where I've been off to, yet?" she calls from the kitchen. Trying to put away the lemon bars but finds his table full and his fridge also full... of dead things.

"Étretat, France" he says simply.

Molly smiled. Because apart from everything else, Sherlock Holmes is really brilliant.

"You really should organize more. Hmm, get another fridge maybe? How about separating the edibles and... dead things, yea?"

"Molly-"

"I mean Sherlock this couldn't possibly be hygienic. Not even close." she tuts, shaking her head looking at the contents of his fridge, lemon bars still at hand.

"Molly-"

"I think I'll help Mrs. Hudson do that. Next weekend maybe," she says more to herself. Clearing some space for the bars.

"Molly," his warning tone. He's still by the window but his voice carries.

Molly shuts her eyes and sighs.

"I know," she says quietly._ I know_.

She shuts the fridge and gently leans her head on the high handle. Right, we're talking about it now.

Not back to square one, please. Anything but that.

"I got your voice mail," he says quietly.

"Yea, about that-"

"You kissed me back," Sherlock Bloody Holmes, everyone. His tone is accusing.

And with that every nerve in her body shoots up. Giving her a jolt like she had just woken up from a bad dream where she was falling. It's uncomfortable and makes her skin prickle.

She straightens her back. Chin up. Turn around. C'mon. There's a good soldier.

"That's hardly fair, Sherlock. Of course, I would," her tone's even but Sherlock thinks he's missing something.

She walks back to the lounge where the couch is. Closest to the exit and farthest from him, he notes.

It's his turn to talk first now. His turn.

"Then why are you _upset?"_

And really Sherlock Holmes' lack of social grace is cowing sometimes.

Molly feels the mother of all migraines coming as she rubs her temples.

"Right, what we need to do now is clear the air. I think we've been tip toeing this for far _far_ too long now. No matter my feelings for you. We have to start fresh, Sherlock."

"How, _may I ask_, are we going to _manage_ that?" his ever drawl, almost unkindly.

"Label whatever this is and take our cues from there."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. But places his violin precariously on his stand.

He nods his head for her to continue.

"On the count of three we each say what we think this relationship is, all right?"

He nods.

She swallows because whatever he says next will be the death of her, she swears. She knows his answer, has always known. And this. This will clear everything up. And they'll be back on track. They'll be fine.

She starts to count nervously, almost as if she's going to the gallows. Molly Hooper has her dramatic flairs just like Sherlock Holmes. She smiles privately at the absurdness though, and then on three-

"Friendship-"

"Something _more_-"

"Oh." _Oh_.

* * *

**More soon.**

**I wanted him to say FOUR but it would be like a big assumption for Molly to think he means something else. And really she already knows she counts anyway.**

**but keep the FOUR in mind okay? Counting.**


	6. Chapter 6

**Review me 'seven'**

**Guys, Underestimate by redtaxi. So worth it.**

**Also life update: I'm uploading this from LAX. Ha. So I wanted to do this before leaving bc you guys banana me.**

**Disclaimer: P.**

* * *

"Friendship-"

"Something _more-"_

"Oh." _Oh_.

There's nothing more endearing than seeing Sherlock's feet peeping out from under his pyjama bottoms, Molly thinks.

She stares at his endearing feet some more then up. What she sees is his straight posture, palm-in-palm behind his back, chin high and head slightly tilted back. But what she deduces is the stance of a man who is out of his depth.

Sherlock Holmes knows anything and everything about body language, but more importantly he could just as easily imitate it.

But this was Molly. She wants, more than anything, for him to realize that he doesn't have to do that. He doesn't have to pretend. Never with her.

Where Sherlock Holmes was brilliant and observant, she was understanding.

She could laugh this off. She could easily see in her mind's eye, screwing it all up. Give him another out. She could splutter some and fumble her way out as always.

But oh, she let's herself have it.

She relaxes. Her smile is cheeky if not giddy and just happy because of this impossible man.

She doesn't realize it but she's moving slowly towards him.

Much like what they've been doing for a little over seven years. Encompassing countless false starts, numerous cringe worthy moments, faked deaths and a return, missed cues and some more than awkward scenes.

His stance staggers minutely. Slight almost panic and a general feel of not knowing.

She wants to touch him. Because above all she's more than a little grateful that he's finally doing something about it. That this time he's not choosing their usual route. She wants to hug him, simply put.

Because right now there's a burning in her chest - her heart brimming with affection. Her heart something heavy and something light. There's humming in her bones. And there's so many things to think about but right now (for the first time) she lets this come first.

Something selfish like allowing herself to touch him.

"Sherlock?"

His back straightens again. Chin determined still. Affected air of nonchalance.

She's not going to get overt declarations. Not with this man. Never with this man.

Because Molly Hooper is brave, she goes for it.

She wraps her arms around his waist under his dressing gown. Tucks her chin so that her forehead barely touches his collarbone. Sherlock Holmes is surprisingly cozy.

His arms don't automatically wrap around her, no those kinds of things were for novels and movie scenes. This is Molly Hooper and Sherlock Holmes. The slow and awkward lot, that they are.

She feels it more than see it. His hands slowly breaks the gelatin barrier he's made himself and wrap then around her as well. One going to the small of her back and the other brushes her cheek a bit.

And with that her heart sky rockets and jack hammers. One word: heady. She's not entirely sure that she prepared for this well. He's bending his head and his nose and cheek are somewhere on her forehead.

Molly tightens her hold on him a bit. Not because Sherlock surprised her by moving his arms at all but because this man knows she needs this.

Because contrary to popular belief, Sherlock Holmes does understand Molly Hooper.

This claustrophobic man let's her have it. He knows she's not expecting anything, much like how she knows he's not promising anything.

He lets her wrap her arms around him and in favor he shows her a bit of his affections. It's not much but it's the little things, he knows, that get Molly Hooper. Also the detective finds her overwhelming as hell.

She nudges her nose to his cheek one last time before withdrawing. She enjoys the heady after effects a bit more before giving him a cheeky smile.

He clears his throat and looks out the window and to the ceiling. Palm-in-palm behind his back and rocking on the balls of his feet slightly. Ever the awkward schoolboy.

She gives him an exasperated eye roll. It's fond too.

"See you at Bart's tomorrow? I brought you grass samples and moss from France. And tobacco ash from a local man who grows it himself close to the sea. The plant couldn't go through customs."

Molly Hooper is amazing. He almost giggles.

She's walking out the door but reroutes for the kitchen.

She came out with the cling wrapped plate.

"Like you were going to eat it. Anyway, they're for Mrs. Hudson."

* * *

John Watson follows the consulting detective down to the St. Bart's hospital lab.

He doesn't know how it happened but somehow he always ends up spending at least two hours a day with the impossible manchild.

Good thing Mary doesn't mind - she was in dire need of details, she decided.

So with a huff of a long-suffering man, he pushed the doors open after Sherlock Holmes swept through in his usual dramatic flair. Didn't even have the decency to keep the door open for him. Bloody git.

Once inside he senses it immediately.

The pathologist and the detective seemed to be... more awkward with each other. If that was possible.

He stood by the entrance to contemplate this. But remembered he hasn't seen Molly for over a week now.

He turns to her and gives her a pleasant smile of someone who missed their friend dearly. Not entirely because Sherlock was being more than his usual bothersome self while she was gone.

He suspects Sherlock did something stupid. He asked but Sherlock was as usual petulant.

"Hullo, Molly. Trip went all right?"

"All right, John. Brought you and Mary some French macaroons and eclairs, actually. And as you can see," she vaguely gestures to Sherlock by the microscope, "I've brought Sherlock some samples."

John turns to Sherlock surrounded by petri dishes. John noted he looked absolutely giddy yet he strangely enough he wasn't starting anything.

"I'll go get you guys coffee."

"No no, Molly, it's fine _really_," John ever the gentleman.

"It's all right. Strangely enough I miss doing it," she gave him a incredulous expression which made him chuckle a bit.

"So," followed by a popping sound of John's lips.

Sherlock ignored him.

"So, I take it you guys are sweeping it under the rug?"

Sherlock adjusted his posture and cleared his throat.

"I took care of it," he said simply.

"Mmm, uh-uh. _Of course_ you did," he placates the man. He stayed quiet a bit then, "how?"

"Don't worry about it," Sherlock Holmes all but growled.

And John Watson, struck by one of his brighter ideas, tries to deduce the truth out of the consulting detective. He noted that Sherlock greeted Molly quietly almost shyly after he walked (_swept_) in. Molly who was usually too cheerful after an episode of awkwardness with Sherlock Holmes, seemed to be relaxed though but almost shy - avoiding directly staring at Sherlock.

But she brought him samples. From a foreign country. So, she wasn't mad.

So they were friends again. So they probably talked-ish. Before she left?

Yes because she brought him samples... but she would still have done that anyway, it didn't matter they weren't in good terms when she left.

Possibly after?

"You guys talked?"

Sherlock Holmes almost balked and choked on his saliva. What gave him away? John won't stop teasing him if he finds out.

Recover.

John Watson may not have penned the Science and Art of Deduction but he _knows_ Sherlock Holmes and he was almost scandalized. But very gleeful. Yes, sweet blackmail. Finally.

"Dear, god! You talked about feelings!"

"Don't be ridiculous, John," his face contorted to a sneer, "I am an Englishmen," here he straightens his posture, "we do not talk about _feelings_."

"Dear god, you did! Mary's going to love this," he giggles.

"Actually, I think I'll leave now so you two can have your alone time," he teases somemore.

"That won't be necessary, John! John-" too late.

...

"I passed by John on the way back," she starts a conversation. "He looked absolutely tickled too. What was that about?"

He clears his throat. And changes the subject.

"Great job with the samples, Molly. They're in perfect condition," he says by way of thanks.

She rolls her eyes but secretly smiles. She'll let it go this time.

They work in silence till the end of her shift. She comes in and out of the lab while he gleefully carries on with his experiments.

She pops her head in the lab one last time after changing.

"I'm leaving, Sherlock. Lock up when you're done, all right?" because she has long since trusted him with his own set of keys. Plus Mycroft cleared it.

She's looks up from readjusting her bag to see him already dressed in his coat and scarf.

He looks like an awkward schoolboy though. About to ask the girl he fancies on a date. For the first time.

Anticipation sky rockets within her.

"A-actually," he clears his throat and tries again.

"Actually, I was wondering if I could walk you home."

It's the little things that get Molly Hooper. Always.

Slow and steady. And the little things.

* * *

**More soon.**

**What comes next would be more of drabbles. Slow and long things. Some awkward, some Sherlock being his difficult self. Andand The Great Unexpected Moving Adventure. He gets into trouble for that.**

**Just when I was about to give up... you guys made banana a thing. Just tears.**


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: Q.**

* * *

The first time they held hands was after a mugging. Of course it would be after a mugging.

He was walking her home again. They've grown out of their awkward stage now. And are finally back to their previous effortless sync. But with the knowlegde it was okay to feel sentiment, that's all.

They were passing the mouth of an alley when two idiots decided to have a bit of fun. Idiotic because Sherlock Holmes was a boxer and he was massively taller than the two idiots.

It happens within an instant but the world slowed down for Molly Hooper. Adrenaline. She sees him work smart targeting the men's weak side. Also working his height to their disadvantage. Sherlock Holmes was a ballerina of a fighter.

He's readjusting his coat and two men are on the pavement at his feet.

"Idiots," he sniffs then turns to Molly.

"All right, Molly?"

It strikes her, not for the first time, Sherlock Holmes is extremely fit.

Unbelievably fit.

Deliciously fit.

She swallows, licks her lips before she answers with a nod. She can feel her eyes sparkling.

He gives her an appraising look, assessing if she got hurt in the scuffle. What he sees, plain as day, is attraction on her face. And he smirks.

He moves closer to her and drops his voice to a whisper. Almost conspiringly.

"Keep it in your trou, Molly. We're in public," he teases.

A bit after their understanding, Molly discovers Sherlock loves to tease her.

And as always she's responds with blazing cheeks and stutters.

She pushes his shoulder roughly and determinedly marches on.

"S-shut up."

She looks back when Sherlock chortles after her.

"Molly, wrong way," he says cheekily.

Sherlock Holmes is really cheeky.

She harumphs and marches past him, chin held high.

And his chuckling begin anew.

She's ahead of him but not for long. She stares straight ahead still a bit miffed and more than embarrassed.

And she is _so_ exasperatedly fond of him right now.

He's still chuckling beside her.

She quickens her pace then she feels it. Cold warms hand in hers. She doesn't stop walking but notices Sherlock isn't laughing anymore.

She gives him a sidelong glance and an unasked question. He shrugs his shoulders a bit, he's staring straight ahead too.

Oh.

_Oh_.

He wants to keep her close. After an incident like that of course he would want her closer.

Not for her sake but for his. An urge to protect her. Also an instinct bred from his three year leave. She bites her lips to stop herself from saying something sickeningly sweet. She opts to exclaims in her head instead.

Sweet sweet, _awkward_ man.

It's when he moves his thumb lightly back and forth that undoes her. She moves closer to him and lightly kisses his coated shoulder - as a way of telling him all is forgiven.

Molly Hooper is a feminist but she finds it feels strangely pleasing to have a man to want to protect you. Even if that man is an awkward schoolboy.

Especially if that man is an awkward schoolboy.

The first time they held hands was after a mugging. Of course it would be after a mugging.

Also that's when Sherlock decided she needs to move in his flat.

* * *

Molly Hooper, 35, and tired.

She was leaving the morgue when three bodies came in. One after the other. High priority. Needs to be done _now_. Can't wait till her next shift. Okay.

She finds nothing wrong with the bodies, all death from natural causes. But since the families requested them done, she had to comply. Okay. Weird though that she couldn't do them next shift. Or why it had to be her.

She just finished scrubbing out when a messenger brings with him a folder. Okay. Result from a smaller hospital that need her consulting. Also high priority. She would've have refused but she's always flattered when other doctors ask her opinion. That doesn't happen often. Okay. So she does that for a bit because the finds were interesting and she couldn't help but try to duplicate the results herself.

So that added an extra 5 hours to her shift. Also Sherlock didn't come by. She tries not to pout.

Ding!

Speak of the devil and he shall appear.

In form of text message.

_I stole Toby -SH_

Oh, Toby. Poor, _poor_ Toby. Alone with that vile man! She hopes he won't find him in the process of shaving the poor cat again. Sherlock wanted to see if lack of fur was a factor in female cats choosing mates. Something about pheromones.

When she points out how in hell was he suppose to know if Toby got any or not.

Stalk him of course, he says as if it were the most obvious thing.

Molly secretly thinks he was just taking out revenge. Toby pushed his mobile off the counter.

Also she thinks he somewhat salutes the cat. Sherlock Holmes almost never departs with his phone. Toby picked the right opportunity to strike at the strange man who did funny things to him.

Molly Hooper quickened her pace. All the while silently praying for Toby to be strong. Mummy was on her way.

* * *

It's when she sees her lumpy couch with a brown throw from half way up the stairs that she first suspects.

She enters cautiously first then is greeted with a view of her grandmother's tea table. Beside that her equally lumpy wide armchair facing the fireplace.

Her first thought is, please god tell me he didn't send me the bodies.

She hears a creak up the stairs. And knows instantly he's up there in John's old room.

She moves slowly up the stairs, pushes the door slowly open, afraid of what she'll see. And she sees what she just suspects.

Her queen size bed but with a new cream satin padded headboard that sparkles pink when it catches light. Pretty, she notices detachedly. Her mother's chest at the foot. Her old white nightstand. Her old lamp on it with the teal shade decorated with the single sunflower. Her old vanity table with her odd bits and crannies. She's absolutely certain she'll find her clothes in the closet. He also somehow squeezed in her flat screen.

Her things look odd and at home.

She also finds Sherlock Holmes in the middle of it all, adjusting the new also cream colored thick curtains.

"Somehow they've mananged to botch this up," he says by way of greeting.

* * *

**More soon.**

**ElixirBB left me a really awesomesauce review. I blush.**


	8. Chapter 8

**Molly Hooper is the epitome of heartbreak, in my opinion.**

**Disclaimer: R**

* * *

He continues to fix the thick curtains while Molly watches.

"Better?"

There's something awkwardly domestic about the scene that for a moment Molly forgets her anxiety.

And as usual something sky rockets within her. But Molly Hooper is plenty smart, sentimental and all around practical.

He turns around to her so expectantly that everything bubbles suddenly to the surface.

He isn't getting it.

She's tempted to hit him but doesn't want to touch him at all.

"Something wrong?" he looks to the drapes again, "should've gotten the lavendar ones," he mumbles more to himself.

They are so off page.

All she can do was flounder in true Molly Hooper fashion. With flailing nervous hands and buh's and true panic.

She starts then stops and she's most certainly confused and feeling a bit not good. Sherlock, what?

She calms down a bit, takes a deep breath though her nerves are still wrought.

Will it always be like this?

"Sherlock, god, Sherlock," is all that comes out. Inside she's a mess. Conflict between wanting to just accept it all (happily even with open arms and all that jazz) and trying to protect her always disappointed heart.

Because she knows Sherlock. He probably hasn't thought this through. Missed something. Something important. Something vital. Something Molly Hooper.

"Why?"

He shrugs, "it's more convenient this way. I won't have to walk you home," he turns to inspect her room again and adds, almost as if he's forgotten he was explaining something, "Also, your district really is awful, Molly."

Wrong answer.

He says the wrong things always. Every time.

She closes her eyes because she thinks better this way. She can't look at him. Because if she does she knows she'll forgive him on the spot.

"So you're doing this out of convenience?" she says slowly. Like one would to a defective child. A defective detective manchild.

Sherlock's caught off guard. Why the need for her repetition?

She's not happy, why?

His face scrunches up, "Molly, why are you so upset - oh."

Bingo, Molly is so tempted to say out loud.

And Sherlock Holmes instantly sobers up.

And again he's so caught off guard that his face makes a lovely confused one.

And there's a little bit of hurt there too.

"Do you really have that little faith in me, Molly?" he whispers, trying to act like a man who wasn't at all worried about her answer.

"Sherlock, you know that's not-" she takes a deep breath, "that's not what I meant."

She meets his silence then continues.

"You don't know how hopeful you're making me. Right now... Sherlock, I'm still waiting for the other shoe to drop," almost a whine, a slight plead. Something like frustration.

She licks her dry dry lips.

"You understand that don't you?" she's wringing her hands, cheek to her shrugged shoulder, hands palm up. "Sherlock we haven't even- we just started!"

She takes a deep breath.

"The worry is legitimate."

Right about now Molly Hooper is caught between not wanting to touch him and realizing she had to if she wanted him to leave.

He sees her visibly panic.

And Sherlock is just... Sherlock. He understands little the delicateness of situations like these. Always when it comes to what she feels so naturally.

He rocks on his feet. Clears his throat. Because he _isn't_ the boy who's worried of what she'll do next.

"Do you want to leave?"

Her answer is instant.

"No," there's heartbreak in her voice because she wants this. _So much_.

"You can't keep pushing me around like this, Sherlock," she's saying defeatedly to his elbow.

"I don't know where you want this to go. I can't always follow you blind. I'm not asking for anything. Just be a little good to me. I know you, Sherlock. I'm not expecting anything," there's an attempt at a smile.

He already knows this but he's surprised he wants her to want things from him. Everything, even.

As always when Molly Hooper admonishes him, he's speechless. And it always sticks. He realizes maybe he wasn't being good.

He tries to justify.

"Molly, it would have been inevitable."

He wasn't stringing her along. _He wasn't_. He would have said but he feels like if he _did_ say it she wouldn't believe him.

Not right now. Shoddy timing, them.

There's a small sad smile on her face.

"Would it really have been though?"

There's hope but she sounds sad too. He knows he's missing something big - like she knew the ending but he didn't. Did she really think he'd drop her?

He looks to her again and her face is wrought with sadness battling with herself.

He wants to just scoop her up but knows that wouldn't be appreciated right now.

And it's not him to be openly affectionate.

There's humming in his bones again. It will always be there. He knows it. But how? How does he make her_ understand?_

He takes a step to her and she takes a step back.

He feels the gelatin barrier again. Making his movements slow and his limbs hard to move.

Molly. He doesn't want to lose Molly.

This feels like post traumatic stress. Like he's pressed for time. But that doesn't make sense because he isn't in danger. Or is he?

He needs to think.

This was imperative.

He avoids looking at her again. If he does he thinks he'll barrel right to her.

He knows why his bones hum. It's because he's working hard to control them. Because if he doesn't he knows he'll have Molly Hooper in his arms in less than two.

He doesn't understand it.

He needs to think.

He looks to her one more time before he stiffly leaves. There's still a sad smile.

* * *

What a mess. What a _mess_.

She's panicing now she doesn't know what to do. They're over she knows. She clenches her stomah and a hand to her forehead, pushing her hair back. She's pacing and she's worried sick.

She shouldn't open her mouth. She shouldn't talk about her feelings. She should've learned. She should've just been happy with what he gives her. Take what little (if any) he gives.

But that would be worse, wouldn't it?

She'd be stuck here in a square, feeling all the things she feels plus the knowledge he would never feel the same amount.

And she'll always be happy being friends with him being stuck at that line because then she knows where she stands.

Now it's like hope after hope_ after hope_.

This will be day he'll take it a notch above. This will be the day he'll say something sweeter. This will be the day he'll tell you everything. The day he'll follow through completely...

And the stupid thing about Molly Hopper is that she knows it won't come. She knows it feels it in her bones _but still_ she waits.

Sherlock. She wants Sherlock.

Everything.

But she won't let herself have a tiny bit. Why? Because she knows if she gets even a tiny bit of his heart she'll end up waiting and waiting for the rest. Not expecting it but staying forever hopeful.

If there's a chance she'll cling to it, she knows.

It's better if they stay friends, she decides. Less heartbreak for her.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes has a game plan. And for once it's simple.

Tell her the truth.

* * *

**More soon.**

**Thoughts and bananas?**


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer: S**

**I hope you spy A Study in Scarlet quote!**

* * *

Sherlock Holmes has a game plan. And for once, it's simple.

Well, as simple as the consulting detective can get.

He has the bright idea to sneak into her room.

And it's a magnificent affair.

Really, it is. Not stupid at all.

He sneaks up the stairs silently and you can almost hear the daring background music (he has composed himself) pour out from his head.

Genius, that man is.

He opens her door and really this wasn't Sherlock Holmes' finest hour.

What greets him is her room bathed in moonlight and Molly Hooper on the bed, back to the door. He's never seen her room at night. Ever. Not even when he died and bunked over.

Her room is homey and just so Molly.

The oddly domestic scene stops him in his tracks and something thuds in his chest.

Maybe he really shouldn't be sneaking into girls' rooms. At night.

But he's here. He should follow through.

Imagine Molly Hooper's heartbreak if he doesn't.

He can't turn back now.

So he pads lightly across her room to the other side of the bed. And he guessed right, she's awake.

She doesn't look sad. She doesn't look mad. She looks tired.

All the bravado has left him at this point.

He settles on top of her covers and rests his back on the headboard with a pillow propped up between back and wall.

Without prompting from him, she starts.

"I'm afraid I'll take this the wrong way," she says softly to his hip. Because what is Molly Hooper if not soft.

"How do you take it?" he says after awhile. Because at this point he really isn't Sherlock Holmes the consulting detective who deduces all and everything.

She does a little shrug, "Like you want me long term. Very long term."

Sherlock does what he's set out to do not two hours ago.

He tells her the truth.

"I don't love you-" he starts but stops because she's turning away from him and this unexplicable panic shot right through him that within seconds his pinned her arms and has his forehead pressed to hers.

Sherlock Holmes is nothing but a boy when it comes to feelings. He understands little of them. But since he is a boy, he feels like if he were to say OUTLOUD that he wasn't in love that that would simply make it true.

Ever the boy, he is mistaken and probably has fucked up everything.

"Molly, nonono-no-no-no. That's not what I meant. That's not what I meant," he realizes he keeps desperately repeating when she answers with a;

"Sherlock, stop it. Let me go," she whispers, "Just this one thing, please. For me. Stop this," there's something like plea and heartbreak in her voice. Her lips are trembling.

She struggles a bit but Sherlock is unrelenting.

"This isn't healthy," she heaves the biggest of sighs, "not for me. Because you really should know that by now now, Sherlock. You really should," this time around she sounds angry and hot angry tears slip out.

He can feel them.

She shies away from his forehead.

"Molly," he's pressing his forehead to hers again and this time closes his eyes. Hoping she'll give him this one more try.

He's done a real number on Molly Hooper. She's so confused and it's utterly all his fault.

He's conditioned her to believe (for a little over seven years) that he doesn't have a heart. And if he did, he most certainly wouldn't give it to her _of all people_.

But Sherlock Holmes doesn't think he _could_ give it to anyone but.

So he tells her this the best way he can.

"Listen to me, just this one more time. Please," because Molly Hooper has always (and will always) have a soft spot for the man, she nods.

Assured that he has her attention, he goes back his previous place. Molly copies him but hugs her pillow to her chest.

As a shield, he deduces. From his words.

"How I feel about you... it's difficult to explain," he sneaks a glance. She isn't looking at him but is fiddling with a loose thread on the pillow's jacket.

"It's a bit like," he starts slowly, "It's a bit like knowing all your life 2 and 2 is 4. But when asked to explain how you know it - you find you don't quite know how."

She doesn't reply so he clears his throat.

"_It's easier to know it than to explain why you know it,_" is his finishing piece.

"Do you understand?" he says almost insecurely to the side of her face.

She's still not saying anything.

"Molly?"

He sees her sigh heavily.

"I'm a bit like the number four?"

"Yes," he says simply.

But because she still isn't looking at him and she doesn't look utterly convinced, he continues.

He licks his dry dry lips and declares to her nervous hands. Because he really isn't brave enough yet to tell it to her face.

"What I'm trying to say, Molly, is that... you're it for me."

Because he's started now, he won't stop. Because really Molly Hooper deserves this.

"You're my better half, Molly. We're both a little bit odd but you're something softer," he says to her elbow.

"Something _more_," to her shoulder.

"The reason this took so long is that I've been fighting against it for just as much," he says to the side of her face. She's still not looking at him.

"I like having you around... If you were to leave, I think I'll find I don't know how to work," he puts on the line.

"Molly, I'm too selfish to _ever_ let you go," he reaches to stop her nervous hand.

Sherlock Holmes has a soft spot for people who see more than he shows them. Molly has (time and time again) proved she's more than capable.

"I have deep affection for you, Molly," his baritone finally moves her.

She surprises him by lacing her fingers with his.

She's smiling softly and he can tell she's holding back a giggle.

"Do you understand?" he asks again.

She's shaking her head but he sees her blush and tight lipped smile. Like she's holding back.

"So I'm the number four. You don't love me but you have feelings for me," she says like she's bulleting points.

She shakes her head some more.

"Are you happy when you're with me?"

His reply instant.

"Tragically so," she giggles because Sherlock Holmes really is dramatic.

She's still giggling while she settles back into bed. He doesn't quiet like how she let go of his hand.

But more importantly, he's happy to have his giggling pathologist back.

"Then everything's sorted," she says from her pillow.

Glancing up at him and smiling and half giggling, she looks so... utterly kissable.

So much so that Sherlock Holmes takes the chance.

He's bending and sliding down... but she lays on her side and tucked her chin in, yawning. She didn't - and doesn't expect to - see him move.

Sherlock recovers by settling into bed as well. Did you really think it would be that easy?

"You're something else, Sherlock," she says fondly to his shoulder.

She doesn't kiss him (though she'd love to) for reasons only girls who have waited would know.

Wouldn't you want the boy you've fancied for almost forever to make that first move? If only to prove that he does feel that way about you. To make that leap - just for you.

But Molly Hooper has been waiting for more than forever, she reaches for his hand.

She's thumbing it lightly and to say sthe least, the detective finds it immensely distracting.

So he starts a conversation for want of distraction.

"Are you working tomorrow?"

"What's tomorrow?" this time she's leaning her head on his shoulder and something sky rockets in his chest.

"Monday."

"Hmm, day shift like today - err yesterday, I mean. It's 2am, isn't it? Then graveyard till Thursday, I think. Then I'll be off for two days starting Friday morning."

"That's ridiculous," he says almost petulantly because he really needs this distraction.

"I know," she giggles, "you'd think they've figured out a regular schedule by now but no," she yawns again.

She kisses his shoulder lightly. She notice he's still in his dressing gown.

She withdraws a bit and looks up to him.

"Sherlock, dressing gown," she says sleepily.

"Don't worry about it," because Sherlock Holmes is brave he kisses her forehead.

"Sleep."

"Okay," which she somehow made into a yawn.

* * *

She wakes up to an empty bed.

She tries not to pout. She turns to her nightstand searching for her mobile as to check the time.

What she finds is a yellow sticky note stuck to it.

_Case_, it read simply.

Oh.

She smiles fondly at her mobile because she half expected him to just text. But he left a note.

Notes are more personal.

Molly Hooper is such a school girl sometimes.

* * *

**More soon. Like just TWO more.**

**I'll make you work for that kiss.**

**Also, MAJOR THEME: how Molly differs with Irene when sharing a bed with Sherlock Holmes.**


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer: T**

* * *

Molly Hooper's day off. Finally.

She crept quietly down the stairs to an empty lounge and kitchen. Both a bit unkempt.

Still on that case then?

This past week she's only seen snippets of him. In the lab and a laboring shadow in the kitchen which she was bright enough not to disturb.

Though she's a little put off because they just talked and she knows where she stands. And it's lovely but she'd be glad if she was allowed to talk to him at all.

She scolds herself. He's busy right now. They really do need better timing.

Her tummy did a little grumble. Hungry. But it's Sherlock's flat, would there even be food? Something remotely edible at least.

Quite the dilemma for Molly Hooper.

She tip-toed into the kitchen, feeling quite foolish. I mean, he moved her in. She was allowed to eat, right?

She found food on the table though. Complete and a true British glorious one at that. Mrs. Hudson then. Bless that woman.

She would go downstairs and thank her but no. Still _too_ awkward. She only met Mrs. H once over her (forced) move. They met at the door. She was just heading out for her graveyard shift and Mrs. H just got back from a date.

She looked pleased and Molly was too embarrassed.

"Sherlock, dear. What can you do, right?"

Molly could only nod with blazing cheeks.

"We're not-we haven't... Oh dear god, I'm off. Ta!"

Nothing but the awkward best for Molly Hooper, thank you very much.

* * *

A super late brunch (lunch) and a shower after found Molly Hooper lounging on her beloved lumpy sofa reading an uber glossy magazine. She was smart enough, it was her day off. Sherlock can bite his tongue if he finds her.

Her back faces the hallway to his room. There.

What better way to spend a day off? Longest shower she's had this week and the glossiest magazine she could find. All while wrapped in the comfort of her beloved lumpy lumpy sofa.

Though she stays on guard in case of footsteps. This continues for a bit. Then -

She hears shuffling steps behind her but doesn't turn around. Prepared to NOT be embarrassed when he finds out she's reading about the royal baby.

"Molly?"

He sounded immensely tired.

Molly turned to find Sherlock still in his dress shirt and rumpled slacks. Hair a mess and eyes squinting like he couldn't keep them open. He was also leaning on the wall.

Just got back from a case then. Molly turns back to her magazine.

"Food's on the table, Sherlock."

"I smelled you," is his reply.

And before she could say anything back, he's on the couch with her and (for the lack of a better word) _snuggling_ into her armpit.

"Sherlock!"

It's all awkward limbs and dead weight but still Molly Hooper's heart jack hammers some. Not entirely because she's still embarrassed about the magazine.

"I got darted, did you know?" he slurred.

"Wh-what?" a bit more than confused really.

He didn't reply so she prodded him

"Hey?"

"Huh? Er, uh-yea. Three hours after yer shift I think. Jawn wanted to wake you up but I told him you just finished yer graveyard shift. Again. Called him an idiot too, after that he threw me on the bed. He was very rude about it."

Molly giggled because he's slurring and pouting and he's being very manchild-like. Complete with hand gestures.

"I'm impressed though, that you could somehow talk _at all_ after... What was it? You got darted, right?"

"Oh _please,"_ he said as if that would simply clarify everything.

...

"Sherlock," she clears her throat, "Not that it's a problem but you're - you're kinda in my armpit."

He instantly tenses up. And Molly has this horrible image in her head that he'd get up and run for the bathroom to get rid her on him. The next day when he's well he'll say something cutting and they'd be back to square one.

Let's forgive Molly Hooper for that one. Because we really do have to remember that for a little over seven years, she believed this manchild had no heart.

But all the same, she waits on bated breath.

What she doesn't expect (and somehow that makes it all the more sweeter) is Sherlock Holmes snuggling deeper into her armpit and giving half a shrug.

"I don't care," after a bit, "I smelled you."

"You said that already."

His grip on her tightens.

"I smelled you," he says again like she doesn't understand. How he _meant_ it.

But because Molly Hooper is a doctor and has spent a little over seven years trying to understand this baffling impossible man...

She gets it.

And it could possibly the sweetest the most beautiful thing that he has said to her. Ever. Second to his 'confession' of course.

Never mind he was still half drugged.

She wraps her arms around him. Instead of aww-ing and coo-ing she opts instead to make a confession of her own.

"After we talked, my pillow smelled a bit like you. I tried my hardest not to... but every evening I wake up my nose is buried in it," she says softly.

"Though, it's beginning to lose your smell," she says almost heart-breakingly to the quiet.

She thought he'd fallen asleep but then he snuggles a bit more into her.

"The sofa smells like you. I didn't count on that when I moved it in. It's distracting when I have a think here. The kitchen's mess, that's why."

"You want to move it then?" she says sadly. She's rather fond of her sofa.

"Never."

She giggles and relaxes more into him.

"Hey get more rest, yea? I'll feed you in the morning."

He nods.

But a minute after says;

"I like it when you do that."

"Which one exactly?"

"Your fingers in my hair and your hand on my elbow, your thumb moving up and down."

* * *

They wake up around 10pm. She wakes up to his wide eyed expression. Of a boy who looks like he just got caught doing something he wasn't supposed to.

So she gives him his space.

She gives him a smile. Something insecure but understanding.

She heads to the kitchen makes herself tea and toast. Hungry but not up for more.

When she's finished she's surprised to see Sherlock still snuggled deep on her (their) sofa. Though it warms her heart.

She's sure they'll still be awkward some but they're okay. Just trying to figure things like these out.

So if they'll be awkward she'll let herself have this.

She walks to the arm of the sofa and rests her chin on her forearm. She brushes her fingers in his hair lightly.

"Hey Sherlock," she says softly, "I'm going up."

He mumbles some.

"All right, night," she whispers then removes her fingers.

She thought briefly of kissing his forehead but decides against it. He's had enough physical contact for the day.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes has had a taste of Molly Hooper in his arms, he's positive he can't sleep without now.

So he sneaks up to her room.

Finds her snuggled in her duvet back to the door and (unexpectedly) there's this things in his chest that spreads to his belly. Affection.

He moves to (his) side of the bed and slowly settles in. He's surprised to find her awake still lying on her side.

"Hey," she whispers then simply closes her eyes.

She thought he'd sleep on his side but is pleasantly surprised when his arms breaks the gelatin barrier, the same one he's made himself, and wrap them around her.

"Are you staying?"

"Always."

* * *

There's nothing more endearing than seeing Molly trying to be tall.

She's in the kitchen on her tip toes and bare footed reaching for something above. Hair spilling some over her shoulder and back. And Sherlock for once (really?) does something out of character.

Moved by affection for the pathologist in his (their) kitchen flat - he closes in on her. He finds his arms move in the naturalest ease. He wraps her from behind and her reaction was almost instant.

She folds in on herself, ears coming to her shoulders. He feels her bones humming but other then that she's unnaturally utterly still.

"I-I needed a strainer for the veggies."

"Hmm, I'll help you," he says but doesn't move.

She's still shaking a bit but she realizes he isn't letting her go just yet. She bends her head and sees his arms wrapped loosely on her waist and a fresh wave of affection washes over her. She smiles fondly and brushes her fingers lightly on his watch then to the back of his hand not caring in the slightest if she was allowed to or not.

It's been (rough) smooth sailing with them since his 'confession' and the sofa-drugged bit. They're still Sherlock and Molly. Figuring things out and it's a happy note that Sherlock's been a bit more good to her lately.

But still he doesn't do this often, she reminds herself. She leans back a bit, testing if she does would he take a step back? When he didn't she finally relaxes.

She likes this. It's new and ridiculously easy to love. She leans to the side and turns her head so she can see his face.

"Hello," he says simply and leans his head to hers. Nudging her hair and temple with his nose.

"Mmm," is all she says and she's all dreamy smiles and closed eyes.

She's on the brink of saying overtly sentimental, he feels. But she's holding back. He nudges her temple somemore and unexpectedly kisses it too. That surprised him but Molly's somewhere on cloud nine still and that's enough for him to push the panic down.

Panic that he wasn't doing the right thing. That it was obvious he was utterly flying blind here.

"Tell me," he whispers.

"It's just that we don't do these kind of things often. Sometimes I forget we're in an... understanding now. And it's such a lovely surprise when you do make the first move - also you are surprisingly cozy."

She giggles and snuggles in closer just to tease him.

He chuckles because Molly is sometimes childish.

"You were in the way. This is the cupboard where I put my clean beakers."

And to tease her more he lifts her up and drops her abruptly in front of the stove.

"Oh please, you just wanted to see how much I've gained!"

"_Domestic bliss does suit you_, Molly," he says teasingly bending his head so it's level and close with hers.

She splutters because Sherlock Holmes teasing her is the most adorable thing in the world.

"Yea, well, you're a big... buh." she splutters and her cheeks (she knows) are blazing.

Sometimes she forgets they really do have an understanding. And that they were allowed to do this without anything getting weird or awkward.

This thought strikes her so happily that without knowing it her arms wrap around him and she's giggling a bit.

She kisses his shoulder.

"Sherlock Holmes, you are impossible."

He hums the Mission Impossible theme.

This makes her giggle anew. Just had movie night with John then.

Molly Hooper, 35, and happy.

* * *

**I changed her age bc I realized, belatedly, that Louise Brealey is 34 not 38. Ha.**

**Last one coming up.**

**Banana me.**


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer: U**

* * *

The (second) first time he kisses her was when she gave him a liver. They were in the kitchen.

He just recovered from a big case and already the working fit was leaving him.

So she brought home a liver.

* * *

_Bored __-SH_

_I can't find Toby __-SH_

_Mrs. H insisted I tell you the lamp broke __-SH_

_I had nothing to do with it, by the way __-SH_

_She ran out crying, again. Was it something I said? __-SH_

_Bored __-SH_

_Bored __-SH_

_Bored __-SH_

* * *

She sets the cooler on the table. Sherlock was on their sofa brooding.

He didn't so much as move when she came in but when he heard the cooler land on the table he instantly perked up.

He all but ran to the kitchen.

He would've made a beeline for it but recognizes some social graces were called for.

"What's that?" he fakes interest. But really he looked more like a child eager to open his Christmas presents

And it's a testament to how far they've come when Molly Hooper finds she's used to the waves of fondness that come after.

"Open it up," she says softly.

Sherlock Holmes slowly makes his way to the table but it's clear he's holding back.

He opens the cooler slowly.

"Oh," he says in awe. A liver. Gunshot wound. Fresh. And beautiful.

And right then and there... he kisses her.

This time he means it. Immensely. He's been wanting to do it for what feels like forever, at oddest hours of the day too. They'd be sitting in their living room and the want would hit him. It's her socks, he thinks. He'd go for it but finds he doesn't know how. Did he need to ask?

His head shuts up because everything slows down and fast forwards _at the same time_. Molly Hooper is overwhelming as hell on his lips.

She tastes like 221B, Mrs. Hudson's biscuits and coffee. And other things. Things he doesn't have the bravery to name. Of things he's fond of and things he secretly holds dear. Of things he's too selfish to ever let go of.

To Molly... he simply tastes like hope this time around.

It's when shaky fingertips touch both his cheeks that he almost loses control.

He always thought she'd be the first one to kiss him. He really did. But time again he underestimates HIS pathologist.

This thought grips him and he still hasn't had his fill of _his_ Molly Hooper.

She's too short, he thinks, before he back-tracks them to the couch. The only type of backtracking Molly is happy to have.

They're half way there when she breaks it first. She's a jumble of nerves, blazing cheeks and something endearing that was just _so_ Molly.

"No-no-no, Sherlock. I smell like morgue," she hasn't finished talking when Sherlock meets her lips again.

"I don't care," he growled in between kisses. He presses her into the sofa.

For Sherlock Holmes seldom drinks, he drinks deep. (_Rudyard Kipling book reference_)

"Okay," she squeaked out from under him.

She's still a jumble of nerves but she's kissing him back. She's shaking and Sherlock is surprised to find he is too.

He wants to kiss every part of her. He wants to kiss the mole on her neck. The corners of her mouth. Her soft small fingertips. Her forehead. Her cheeks. Hell all of it. But he doesn't want to leave her lips. It's not in him just yet to _ever_ let go.

His bones are humming making him tremble. There's something coursing through his veins.

It's not sentiment...

It's not fondness...

It's not endearment...

It's not affection...

It's not attraction...

...

It's all of that and more.

_So much more._

He fucking loves Molly Hooper.

He finally realizes.

He loves her more ardently than he thought he was capable of.

He doesn't say it. Finds he doesn't quiet know how. But she understands it from the way his hold on her hips tighten and his lips pressing harder.

He's the one to break it this time.

His forehead to hers and his nose to her cheek.

"Molly, Molly, _Molly_," he says it like a boy who just figured it out but has absolutely no idea how to say it. To make it come out. To make her understand.

But this is Molly Hooper.

She will always understand this awkward schoolboy of an impossible man. She's spent close to eight years trying.

So cups his face. She kisses his lips once. Both his cheeks. His forehead and everywhere she can reach. She does it deliberately and slowly. And Sherlock? He's there... his grip still on her hips, eyes shut tight. Not caring much for this slow deliberate pace but he understands Molly needs this.

He meets her lips again. Not moving. He keeps them pressed there. Searing all the things he can't find the words for.

...

And Molly? She's there taking it all in. This glorified moment.

Because she's more than a little grateful he didn't become her greatest tragedy.

**Notice how my disclaimer ends with U.**

* * *

**Also because I really wanted to end it with U, also the only reason why this story has reached this far.**

**And the consequence? I HAVE TOO MUCH PLOT BUNNIES. Just drabbles. I call it...**

**The IN BETWEEN. So look for that and I'll see you soon.**

**Make some noise if you want it.**

**THANK YOU FOR THE FAVORITES AND FOLLOWS. And bananas.**

**You guys are just so so soo.**

**xx**


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